


The Sleep of the Righteous

by 2ndA



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Canon Backstory, Gen, Literal Sleeping Together, Sleep, Sleepovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-06-06 19:58:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6767992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/2ndA/pseuds/2ndA
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It might take a while, but when Matt Murdock finally does drop off, he sleeps like the dead"</p><p>For the Dreamwidth daredevil kink meme prompt about Matt sleeping best when he's near (or on) Foggy</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Sleep of the Righteous

_"Pray for the wakeful house/ friend, and the lit window."_

 

Just after they’d taken Karen’s case, Matt had become suddenly and uncharacteristically accident-prone.  One day, he’d come into the office with his hand bandaged.  Later that week, there had been a small but undeniable limp. Foggy hadn’t said anything, but he’d noticed.  After all, only one partner at Nelson & Murdock is actually blind. When Matt came in a few days later with a bruise shadowing his cheekbone, Foggy _still_ hadn’t said anything, but Matt had been able to tell where he was looking.

“Walked into a door,” Matt had said shortly, and then, like he could see Foggy’s surprise: “It’s this case.  I—I  haven’t been, uh, sleeping well.”

And Foggy had believed him.

***

After all, it’s not like Matt has ever been a deep sleeper.   Foggy feels that he can say this because he is, all bias aside, a _champion_ sleeper.  He can drop off anywhere, at any time, up to and including judge’s chambers during an unexpected recess.  It’s a skill he attributes to sharing a bedroom with three brothers growing up.  Until his parents finally moved out of the Kitchen, he and Marshall and Christopher and Arthur had a double set of bunk-beds in the back bedroom of what was basically still a tenement apartment.  If he hadn’t quickly developed the ability to sleep through anything, he would’ve succumbed to sleep deprivation by second grade.  

Marci had actually been the first person to comment on Matt’s sleeping habits, with her unerring knack for pointing out other people’s quirks. 

“Jesus, exams are _over._ Does he _ever_ sleep?”  she’d asked Foggy one night when they’d arrived at his dorm room just as Matt was leaving for the law library.  Foggy half-suspected Matt was just politely arranging to leave the room, except his roommate had already been out in the hallway with his backpack when he and Marci came out of the elevator. It’s not like Matt could’ve heard them enter the building three stories below, right? (Wrong.)

“Of course he sleeps.  Everybody sleeps,” Foggy had replied, automatically coming to Matt’s defense.  But he’d thought about it afterwards.  Not immediately afterwards, of course, because exams were over and Marci could be distracting…

It was true that, although Foggy was a night-owl, he was almost always asleep before Matt.  Weekends, Foggy would often crawl into bed around midnight or one, visions of torts dancing in his head.  Sometimes, he’d fall asleep to the quiet whisper of pages as Matt turned over sheets of Braille, re-reading just one more chapter in the dark.  More often, Matt would still be at the library despite the hour.  Because of the cramped layout of their dorm room, Foggy’s last image before falling asleep was usually Matt’s neatly made bed and the bare plaster behind it. No posters, of course, no family photos: just the wall and a bank of windows because the early light never bothered Matt. 

 At some point in the wee hours, Matt would sneak in, silently put away his books, soundlessly get ready for bed.  Then, if the next day were Saturday, Foggy would _wake_ to the sound of Matt turning pages, surrounded by sunlight and bedding far too nice for a law student.  (“I have sensitive skin,” Matt said of his silken sheets.  He’d been so somber about it that Foggy had known not to tease him.)

Of course, if the next day was Sunday, Matt would often sneak back out again to early Mass, all without ever waking Foggy.  When Foggy finally peeled his eyes open,   he’d find a dining hall bagel on the milk crates that constituted a bedside table, usually holding down a note in Matt’s fractured handwriting about where the study group was meeting. 

“We’re just gluttons for punishment, aren’t we?”  Foggy had said when they’d applied for the Landman and Zack internship, but he hadn’t really been talking about himself.  Law Review, moot court, competitive internships: Matt is not content to simply take the classes and pass the bar.  He spares himself nothing, although of all the careers he could have reasonably chosen, law has to be one of the more difficult.  

Matt covers a sheet of Braille in roughly the time it takes Foggy to parse his way through printed English case law and Columbia’s Disability Services had a legion of people recording chapters and articles so he could keep up with course readings, but there was no getting around the fundamental fact: the study of law involves a _lot_ of written words.  Until he saw Matt’s study routine—cumbersome binders of single-side-only Braille pages, a computer with a customized keyboard, headphones, backup headphones, external speakers, various cables, a digital tape recorder, extra batteries—Foggy had never really appreciated his ability to simply skim a highlighted chapter, flip through a stack of flashcards, scribble an outline on a post-it note. 

Matt never complains (or at least, not more than the average law student), but he should.  Every single assignment takes him longer.  It is Foggy’s practical introduction to the idea that life is inherently unjust: Matt simply has to work _more_ and harder to cover the same amount of work as his sighted classmates.  And given that there are only so many hours in the day, that means he has to sleep less.

“You know,” Foggy said, looking up from his bar review book after a week of brooding on Marci’s comment, “I go to sleep before you every night and don’t think you’ve woken me by accident in two whole years of sharing a room.”

Matt pulled his headphones down around his neck.  “You’re welcome?”

“No, I mean—well, yeah, thanks, but…not _once._   You must have eyes like—” _a cat_ , Foggy is about to say, but then he stops, not sure if that’s something you can say to someone who is blind.

Matt just shrugs, the way he usually does when Foggy opens his big mouth and inserts his foot. “I have some practice navigating in the dark.  Plus, you’re not exactly a light sleeper.”

“I sleep the sleep of the righteous!”  Foggy had declared.

“Is _that_ what it is?” Matt smirked.  “I thought maybe Marci had worn you out…” 

Foggy’s jaw had dropped.  “My mouth has fallen open,” he’d narrated. From altar-boy Matt, that statement was practically raunchy. “Matthew, I’m shocked, _shocked_ to hear you speculating on my lady-friend.”

Matt had blushed then and chucked one of his million-thread-count pillows at Foggy’s head.  Navigating in the dark or not, he’d hit Foggy with his usual freakish accuracy.

***

After Foggy learns how Matt is really spending his nights, one of the things he resents most is how _stupid_ he feels for having believed Matt’s excuses.  Not that any rational person could have deduced the real reason—idealistic attorney by day, masked crusading vigilante by night?—but only a moron would have bought Matt’s stories about sleeping badly, getting clumsy, tripping on the stairs at the 34 th Street subway, falling while taking out the trash.

Karen isn't a moron.  Eventually, she begins to tactfully question Matt’s occasional absences and propensity for abrasions.  Foggy decides Matt needs a better cover story.  He does what any good lawyer would: he delays.  When he can delay no longer, he obfuscates. 

“I’m not sure,” Foggy says, to establish plausible deniability the third time she asks for Matt’s whereabouts, “but I think Matt has to, uhm.  Attend a, you know—a meeting.” 

“Really?” Karen had looked at the official Nelson and Murdock appointment calendar, which Matt got free from his church.  That month’s picture had been a crispy full-color reproduction of the martyrdom of St. Lawrence. “He doesn’t have anything scheduled except that deposition this afternoon.”

Foggy had cleared his throat and avoided her eyes.  This was the delicate part: suggesting to the jury without actually leading the jury, building an image without saying anything opposing council could object to.  “A _meeting_ , Karen.”

And Karen had blinked, said, “Oh!” like she could intuit Matt's entire, awful motherless childhood from Foggy’s diplomatic tone.  When Matt had dragged himself in an hour later with the tapes of two butterfly bandages visible on his temple, Karen hadn’t commented.  She had simply handed him a cup of coffee and reminded him about the deposition.

***

It had been three awkward weeks later that Daredevil had appeared on Foggy’s fire escape. Foggy was making pancakes while skimming the Sunday _Times_ crossword and he absolutely did _not_ shriek like a little girl when he turned and saw the dark form lurking outside his window.  He probably would have, though, if the sight hadn’t sucked all the air right out of his lungs.  

Foggy waits for the Daredevil to come crashing through the window in a hail of glass splinters—he’s seen the news footage, he remembers the Incident: vigilantes do not wait for invitations.  But instead there is a very polite knock on the window frame.

Foggy wrestles the window sash up and finds himself staring at Daredevil’s ridiculous lug-soled fetish boots.  The mask is just a piece of fabric, dangling from one hand like a black flag, and it should be weirder than it is to see his friend’s face on top of Daredevil’s body.  But somehow it’s still Matt, complete with the dark circles under his eyes that Foggy recognizes from law school all-nighters and the scruff suggesting he hasn’t been home to shave in a few days and the gaze that is just a little bit too far to the right to actually make eye-contact.

“Uh.  Hi,” Foggy says, so Matt can turn his head to the correct angle.

“Hi.  ‘Morning.” Matt fidgets with the fabric of the mask. “So, I was, you know, in the neighborhood…”

Foggy almost laughs at how hard he’s trying. “No.  Nope. Don’t even— _in the neighborhood_ is what you say when you accidentally-on-purpose run into your ex at the laundromat. You’re on my _fire escape_. Outside a fourth floor window.  In…in boots.  And you’re bleeding.  How in the world…?”

Matt shrugs.  “Came over the roof.”

Foggy gesticulates wildly with his spatula even though Matt can’t see his agitation: “Oh, my God, I am not hearing this…”

“Well, I figured you wouldn’t want to buzz me up through the lobby dressed like…” And, yes, that smirk is definitely Matt Murdock.  Foggy would know it anywhere.

“Foggy, look, I just wanted to say…”

Foggy knows what’s coming when Matt’s blank gaze skitters away like that and, suddenly, he’s not sure he’s ready for this.  Matt is going to apologize, and then Foggy is going to either have to accept his apology—or not.  And he doesn’t want to accept that his friend is…Jesus, up until two weeks ago, Foggy would have sworn before any court in the land that Matt didn’t even know what fetish boots _were._ Never mind how to purchase a pair over the internet as part of a get-up for leaping buildings in a single bound or battering very dangerous felons throughout West Midtown.  The safest, most reliable part of Foggy’s life has become the most dangerous and unpredictable feature of life in New York. Foggy cannot just _accept_ that.

A part of him is tempted to slam the window, leave Daredevil on the fire escape, and go back to his peaceful Sunday morning: pancakes and the _Times_ and wondering if his friend—dorky, innocent Matt—will stop by after Mass.  Fortunately, he’s spared the decision since Matt’s nose suddenly twitches and a split-second later, the smoke alarm in Foggy’s apartment goes off with an ear-piercing wail.

By the time Foggy has gotten the batteries out of the smoke alarm and the charred pancakes out of the skillet, Matt has come through the open window to lurk by the rickety kitchen table that Foggy inherited from his sister Sheila when she got married and moved to New Jersey. 

“Chair’s on your left,” Foggy sighs, “you might as well sit down before you fall down.”  And then, just to make conversation, “Figured you’d be at church this early.”

“Foggy!” Matt sounds genuinely horrified.  “I can’t go to church like _this_.”

It’s true, he looks rough—that black Irish coloring always makes the shadows under his eyes seem dark as bruises.  And maybe there _are_ some bruises: he’s got marks along the left side of his jaw that look like road rash and a sticky patch above his ear where his hair has matted with blood.  When he sits, his shoulders sort of…collapse in on themselves for an instant, like they can’t even bear the weight of Matt’s own head for a moment longer.

“Have you slept _at all_?”  Foggy asks, not even sure why he bothers.

Matt looks puzzled. “Last night or the night before?”

Foggy does not even know what to _say_ to that. “Jesus, I…never mind.  Just…”

“I was _busy_ ,” Matt snaps, in that sanctimonious tone that has always, always made Foggy want to go befriend someone fun and shallow and uncomplicated.  He wonders what Marci is doing for breakfast.

Busy with _what—_ Foggy takes a deep breath.  He’s not going to have this argument.  Not again.  He’s going to focus on what he can fix, even if that’s just pancakes. “Fine.  If you’re not going to church, at least go wash up so you can eat breakfast like the rest of us pagans.”

And Matt, for fucking _once_ , does as he’s told.

Foggy pretends not to notice the way Matt winces when he stands, the way he trails his gloved hands along the doorframe for just a second to orient himself in what should be a familiar apartment.  As he mixes up more pancake batter, Foggy listens with half an ear to the sound of running water, the squeak of his own closet door.  He wonders if Matt was worried just about his appearance (not like that was a small consideration: he’s left bloodstains on the doorframe). _Can’t go to church like this:_ wearing a costume, or stained with blood—not all of it his own?  And if Matt can’t go to church, where will he go for absolution?

Foggy turns out a half-dozen pancakes and then decides he should scramble some eggs.  Matt will need some protein after a night of…Foggy’s not even thinking about it. Instead, he remembers teaching Matt his top secret recipe for Morning-After scrambled eggs. Unsurprisingly, between the blindness and the years of institutional food (dining hall, orphanage, whatever crap his father nuked on a hot plate), Matt is a hopeless cook.  Moreover, he likes his foods at extremes: super-bland or incredibly spicy.  Left to his own devices he’d probably survive on revolting protein shakes and Thai take-out, so chances are good that he hasn’t eaten in longer than Foggy cares to consider. 

The eggs have just started to solidify when Foggy realizes he can’t hear Matt moving around the apartment anymore. 

Foggy shifts his pan off the burner, listens to the silence of his apartment.  Sunday: pancakes, the _Times_ , and his friend Matt.  OK, so it’s not exactly how he would’ve chosen to have those things, but he’ll have to take them as he can get them.

Foggy pours a mug of coffee and wraps a bag of frozen broccoli in a dishtowel (he’d only _pretended_ not to see the way Matt winced when he moved). 

But when he turns out of the kitchen, he stops suddenly enough to slop hot coffee on his hand. Matt is slumped on the couch, his head at an impossibly uncomfortable angle.  He’s wearing Foggy’s old Columbia sweatshirt over his costume and the combination should be ridiculous except that his complexion is almost the same ash-grey as the fabric.  Matt’s taken off his gloves; his knuckles look like someone has gone over them with a rusty grater.  

“Matt?”  Foggy whispers, not sure whether he wants to wake his friend or not. Surely Matt’s just fallen asleep, exhausted from a night of mayhem? 

Only Matt doesn’t move, not even a twitch.  Foggy remembers the blood in his hair: what are the symptoms of concussion in someone whose eyes don’t respond to light?  He remembers Matt wincing.  Internal bleeding?  That nurse, whatshername from Metro General—?  Oh, God, what if it’s too late for that? Is Matt even _breathing_?  What if he’s survived the night in Hell’s Kitchen just to slip into a coma in Foggy’s living room, when Foggy hadn’t even really wanted to let him in…?

Foggy hesitates, dread and bile creeping up his throat.  It seems like a geologic _age_ until, finally (oh, thanks be to all of Matt’s calendar saints, _finally_ ) Matt’s chest rises shallowly.  Only then can Foggy let his own breath out.   Gently, he places the coffee mug on the end table. He flinches at the sound it makes, though Matt doesn’t even stir.  By the time he wakes, hours later, the pancakes are cold and Foggy has finished the coffee and the whole crossword.  Evidently, it might take a while, but when Matt Murdock finally does drop off, he sleeps like the dead.

***

Months later, Foggy brings home the final cardboard box of crap from the now-defunct law offices of Nelson & Murdock, slings it onto the couch, and refuses to think about the day he’d believed Matt had died in that very spot.   He’s not thinking about Matt at all. Why should he? Matt is an adult and more than capable of looking after himself.  Capable, in fact, of more things than Foggy had ever suspected.

Of course, it hasn’t escaped his notice that Matt’s fancy bedding isn’t getting much use these days.  Over the months that they’d share a practice, Matt had developed the tendency to stop by on weekends with a newspaper he can’t read, just to fall asleep on Foggy’s sofa.  During the week, he might miss two days at the office, then arrive in the evening with carry-out Chinese and a stack of legal briefs; he dozes between paragraphs.

“It’s quieter here,” Matt always said, simply.  Which is absolutely a lie: Matt’s place is a renovated loft high above the street with double-glazed windows, walls three feet thick, and floors built at the turn of the last century to support industrial sewing machines.  Whereas Foggy’s shoe-box apartment sounds like it’s caught in a monsoon every time any neighbor flushes a toilet.  At any given moment, Foggy can almost always hear traffic from the cross street, a reggaeton dance party down the hall, and—in season—at least two competing ice cream trucks.

 Well, as Grammy Nelson used to say, Matt has made his bed and he’ll have to lie in it. Foggy leaves the cardboard box on the sofa and flips through his mail. Bills; grocery circular and more bills; the new Hogarth, Chao, and Benewitz benefits and retirement prospectus.  He never thought he’d work somewhere that had to publish the equivalent of a glossy magazine to summarize the health plan.  He opens it at random:  dental and vision.  Vision.

Matt will be _fine_.  He’ll learn to sleep without the background noise of Foggy’s apartment.  Or he’ll run a fan, buy a white-noise machine.  There are apps for that.

If Foggy had been the one to pay the electric bill at the law firm, it was just because he was there more often, not necessarily because Matt was forgetful about stuff like that.  And Foggy had only ever brought Matt groceries when there was an unbeatable sale at Costco…  Matt’s kitchen had more storage space; it had nothing to do with the fact that Matt disliked navigating Manhattan’s cramped grocery stores.   Naturally, once Foggy had brought the stuff over there, it made sense to cook it—Matt’s kitchen was bigger, after all, and virtually un-used.  After cooking, it was only fair to leave some of the leftovers in Matt’s fridge.  And to call and remind Matt that the food was there for eating, not for ignoring until it turned into a mold farm.

Foggy tugs off his tie and forces his mind to consider dental co-pays. He’s weighing the benefits of the silver-level versus the gold-level health package when he hears boots on his fire escape.  It’s raining in Hell’s Kitchen, a steady, drenching spring rain, and he’d left the kitchen window cracked because otherwise, the damp seeps in and clouds the old panes. 

“Come in,” he shouts, just so Matt knows Foggy knows he’s there. Somehow, he’s still startled by the speed and silence with which Matt appears in the kitchen doorway.

“Hi, Foggy.”

“Hi.” Foggy tries to wait him out, he really does...but he’s never been the strong, silent type.  Matt could probably go _days_ without talking; Foggy barely makes it a minute: “You’re, uh, pretty wet, there.”

“Yeah.” Matt strips off the mask—the new one, and Foggy can’t believe he’s nostalgic for that stupid old scrap of fabric that he wore like the Dread Pirate Roberts. The gloves follow, landing on the counter with a sodden slap.  They’re new, too, a sort of red so dark they’re almost black.

Speaking of… “Bleeding, much?”

Matt pauses, like he’s not sure if Foggy is being sarcastic or not.  He always used to be able to tell.  Before.

“Rain’s washed off most of it,” Matt’s lip is split; he licks it unconsciously.  “Bruised rib,” he pauses, breathes. Listens.  “Make that two.  But they don’t sound broken.  Rolled my ankle.  Not worth going to the hospital. Claire doesn’t work there anymore, anyway.  But the rain just wouldn’t let up—”

“And you just happened to be in the neighborhood?”

Matt ducks his head, “Yeah. Not much happening tonight—weather, I guess.  So, I thought…you know, it’s always quieter over here.  And I could, uhm.  I...I could use the rest.”

That’s as close as Matt Murdock is ever going to get to a cry for help, so Foggy figures he’s lucky someone hears it for what it is.

Foggy has to help undo the tiny, hidden fasteners on the body armor because Matt’s can’t raise his arms more than shoulder high. Once they peel back the high-tech fabric, it’s easy to see why: on his left side, the soft space under Matt’s ribs is nearly black with blood trapped under the skin. Higher up, there are more distinct marks, red and purpling heel-strikes where the kicks landed against bone.  Foggy doesn’t ask, and Matt doesn’t volunteer any information.

Foggy sends Matt into the shower with a pair of sweatpants and the oldest, softest t-shirt in his collection.   He finds a pair of socks, too, remembering Matt’s weird sensory aversion to walking around in bare feet.  He digs out a sticky half-bottle of baby shampoo from the last time Sheila visited with the kids.  “ _No more tears: Specially formulated for sensitive skin_ ,” he reads for Matt’s benefit.  “And if you don’t smell like a baby’s butt, I get my money back.”  He’s pleased to see a faint smile ghost over Matt’s face.  

The t-shirt is too large and the sweatpants are too long.  In them, Matt looks strangely young, vulnerable, especially without his glasses.  His pupils are huge and dark in the well-lit room.  It’s unnerving even though Foggy knows that has nothing to do with shock.

 “I’ve got a bag of peas in the freezer, if you wanna put something on that ankle,” Foggy offers when Matt emerges from the bathroom.  “Food Emporium was having a sale.”

“As much as I appreciate your produce-based home remedies,” Matt’s smile is a little more robust now, “I’d kind of like to just close my eyes for an hour or so.”   

Matt shuffles toward the sofa, but Foggy redirects him a moment before his fingertips land on the Nelson & Murdock sign sticking out of the abandoned cardboard box.

“Bed’s this way,” Foggy says, guiding Matt’s hand to his elbow, “I’ve got junk all over the couch.” 

It’s a sign of Matt’s exhaustion that he doesn’t argue about taking Foggy’s bed. 

 “You do know I’m not actually waking you up in an hour or two to send you back out in that, right?” Foggy nods toward the rain-slicked window as Matt gingerly eases himself onto the mattress.

“Rain’s slowin’—l’blow over s’n,” Matt’s words already sound a little slurred.  Foggy wonders how long it’s been since he’s slept a full night.

“Do you want me to…” Foggy realizes he’s about to offer to leave a light on, the way he does when his nieces visit.  Before he can revise the sentence, Matt’s eyes snap open.

“Police,” he says, “Radio car. On the corner. It—oh.  Routine.”

“Yeah,” Foggy replies, mystified. “Mr. Ahmed at the bodega gives them free coffee. Wait—you can hear that?”

Matt nods, looking suddenly so weary that for a moment Foggy thinks he might cry.  “If I listen.”

“Damn, Matt.  No wonder you can’t sleep.”

Matt shrugs.

Foggy's curious enough that he snaps off the bedside lamp, toes off his shoes, and stretches out as gently as he can on the far side of the bed.  Try as he might, he can hear nothing but the falling rain.

 “What can you hear now?”

“Mostly your heartbeat.  And a…a cat?  Yeah, a cat in the alley.  And you, breathing.”

That makes Foggy feel weirdly self-conscious, like maybe he’s breathing wrong.  Too fast or too slow. He tries not to think about it. “Yeah, Mrs. Lopez in 2B keeps feeding that cat.  Makes the super crazy.”

“He’s climbing—second floor.  Fire escape,” Matt says.  “East side, above the bodega with the cops.”

It takes Foggy a moment to calculate that his apartment is about as far from that corner of the building as you can get and still be paying rent to the same landlord.  He rolls onto his side, looks down.  This isn’t working.  Matt’s blank eyes stare up into the darkness, attentive to the feral cats of New York.

“What?”  Matt says, feeling Foggy’s gaze. 

“Here, I’m gonna—hey, pick your head up a little.”  Foggy slides his arm under Matt’s neck, settling his friend’s head against his shoulder.  “How’s that?”

Matt takes a hesitant breath, testing the pull on his ribs.  “Okay.”  And then, a moment later, “Foggy?”

“Yeah?”

“Heartbeat’s too loud.  I can’t hear the cat anymore.”

“I’m sure he’s still there.  Probably trying to stay out of the rain. Close your eyes; you’ll be able hear better.”

“Doesn’t actually work like that, y’know,” Matt mutters, stubborn to the end, but Foggy covers Matt’s eyes with his hand.  He doesn’t move it until, under his palm, he feels the flutter of eyelashes closing.

Foggy concentrates on keeping his heartbeat slow. With Matt against his left side, it will be the loudest thing he hears.  Marci always liked it when Foggy ran his fingers through her hair while they lay together in bed, but Foggy wonders if that might not set off strange echoes in Matt’s head.  Just thinking about all the things Matt can sense makes Foggy newly aware of his surroundings.  He can feel the button on his cuff pressing into his right wrist, smell baby shampoo. _No more tears_ , Foggy thinks.  When Matt grunts and shifts onto his side, easing off his bruised ribs, Foggy feels the minute catch of stubble against his button-down. 

As Matt sinks deeper into sleep, his head grows heavier on Foggy’s chest, and Foggy becomes aware of the damp warmth of breath against his collarbone.  He tries to make his own breathing match.  In.  Out. In.  Deep and even, erasing the differences between them so that Matt no longer has to track him as an alien being.  So he can let his guard down just a little bit, for just a little while. Maybe it works: gradually, Matt curls against him, relaxing into a solid weight against Foggy’s side.  Slowly, so slowly, avoiding the bruised areas— Foggy slides his arm up to get feeling back into his fingers.  Under the soft-washed cotton of the t-shirt, he can count Matt’s vertebrae, feeling his back expand rhythmically with each breath.

A moment later—“Nngh,” Matt mumbles, and his fingers twitch where they’re tucked against Foggy’s shirtfront.  Once.  Twice.

“Shhh,” Foggy whispers automatically and, miraculously, Matt settles again.   Foggy wonders if he’s dreaming, wonders what the dreams of the blind are like.  Maybe Matt’s dreams are sensory. Does he still feel ninjas and threats the visceral way Foggy can still feel the roll and pitch of the Hudson hours after he gets off the sailboat his cousin Martin keeps moored by the GW Bridge?  Of course, Matt wasn’t always blind.  Can he still _see_ in his dreams, a kaleidoscopic reshufflings of old, half-remembered visions from before his accident? Perhaps in Matt’s dreams, the sky is still blue, Jack Murdock is still alive, Daredevil doesn’t need to exist.

**Author's Note:**

> the epigraph is from Marina Tsvetaeva's poem, Insomnia


End file.
